The Rules of Backyard Croquet

by Sunni Overend

  Sweaters had been placed incorrectly and the floorboards hadn’t been swept. Dust and fine fibres had gathered in the corners of the store. She retrieved the vacuum from out back and zoomed over the floorboards. She plucked one sweater at a time from its incorrect position, refolded it in tissue paper and returned it to its place on the oak shelves.

  The steel-pointed toe of Jackson’s boot was tapping on the front door at ten to ten.

  ‘I thought I was going to be the early one.’ She sailed in when Apple pulled open the door. ‘You look nice.’

  ‘So do you,’ said Apple. ‘Are they our new pants?’

  Jackson flexed her leg and the skintight matte leather stretched. ‘Yeah, they’re pretty supple. At first I was a bit doubtful of the make but they’re all right – props to V’s designers. I did yoga in them on the weekend, no joke. Only for ten minutes because I’m filthy unfit, but they didn’t split a seam.’

  ‘What didn’t split a seam?’ Veronica was descending the carved wooden staircase that led from her residence upstairs. Apple had never been up, but she’d seen pictures of it in design magazines on the counter – an opulent, split-level, Jazz Age New York–style apartment.

  ‘These didn’t split a seam.’ Jackson threw a foot onto the counter, demonstrating the elasticity. ‘They’re good. They’ll sell well.’

  ‘I know. That’s why they’re here, in my store.’

  Jackson went to lower her leg, but Veronica clutched her black ankle boot, keeping it on the bench.

  ‘Ouch. What the fuck? I’m inflexible, I’ll tear something.’

  ‘As long as it’s not the pants.’ Veronica assessed the boot. ‘They look almost gothic, Edwardian even with those fine round laces. Apple, I meant it on Saturday when I said I needed to get into shoes. We’ve been out of that game too long. Where are these from? They’re interesting.’ She released the boot and Jackson’s foot stamped to the ground.

  ‘Yeezy.’ She rubbed the back of her leg.

  ‘No, who are they by?’

  ‘I just told you: Yeezy.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Y-e-e-z-y. Forget it, you’re too highbrow.’

  ‘I am not highbrow. I love . . . vintage. Who on earth’s Yeezy?’

  Jackson busied herself unpacking a box on the floor. ‘Kanye’s line.’

  ‘That rapper?’ Veronica’s laugh was condescending. ‘You’re right, I am too highbrow.’

  ‘Actually, you’re not too highbrow, you’re out of touch.’

  Veronica’s eyes widened, before a veneer of cool settled upon her face. ‘You think I’m out of touch because I don’t know about some transient range of clothes raked together by a wannabe-Lagerfeld musician?’

  ‘He’s hardly trying to be Chanel.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m not a fan girl. I’m just saying, Yeezy’s fresh. Couture snobbery will only hold you back.’

  Veronica had grown slightly red in the face but her expression remained steady. ‘Don’t patronise me. I’m fresh. If a seventy-year-old in a pink minidress isn’t fresh I don’t know what is.’

  Jackson grinned.

  Veronica’s stare remained cold, but Apple detected a faint pleasure, a delight even, that she perhaps took in tussling with someone younger who pushed back.

  ‘Speaking of Saturday,’ Jackson threw an unpacked box out back, ‘did you get some?’

  Veronica admired her nails. ‘I seek, I find.’

  ‘The Swiss?’ Jackson asked, and Apple knocked over her coffee, snatching it up again as the milky brown liquid spread across the counter.

  ‘For God’s sake, Apple.’ Veronica threw tissues on it. ‘No, it wasn’t the Swiss; he disappeared. But there were three to choose from in the end. Thank you for the company. Few of my friends still have the stamina. Stay there, Apple.’

  Apple was mopping the bench, wondering where she’d go. Veronica disappeared upstairs then returned with a pile of magazines. Jackson was at the front of the shop, hanging trousers.

  ‘You know you’re all gab, Jackson. You may know how to talk a good game but your pants are too tight, which makes you look cheap, as do those earrings. On the other hand, Apple . . .’ She fanned the magazines. ‘Apple knows how to keep her mouth shut and her eyes open. She can pick style at two hundred feet and she’d never hang a trouser as badly as you have just now.’

  Veronica crossed the room to rehang the trousers Jackson had just finished with. She returned to pull a marker from the drawer, stuffing it in Apple’s hand. ‘So, I want you to circle every shoe in here that you think has potential for Loom, and annotate, so I can brief my designers in turn.’

  She took her coffee and sailed up the stairs. The door lock clicked.

  ‘Bitch cuts like a knife.’ Jackson strolled to the counter, peering at herself in the round smoky mirror. ‘But she’s right, these do look cheap.’ She unclipped her earrings and tossed them in the bin.

  Apple spun the marker in her hand, feeling the strangeness of being praised by her boss. She turned a page of one of the magazines and circled a shoe.

  ‘And she’s right about you, too,’ Jackson said. ‘You know your shit.’

  ‘Do I?’ Apple circled another shoe and wrote a note before turning the page.

  Jackson peered over her shoulder. ‘Tell me about this fashion course thing you did.’

  Apple’s skin prickled. ‘Hm.’

  ‘On Saturday, when Veronica complimented your dress. You said you made it.’

  ‘I’m a design school dropout.’

  Jackson snorted. ‘Been there. What school?’

  Apple scratched the nape of her neck, discomfort rising. ‘Emmaline Gray.’

  ‘That . . . that fancy academy in Sydney?’

  Apple quietly turned another page and nodded.

  ‘Don’t blame you for dropping out, heard it’s hard-arse. Hard to get in, harder to stay in. Costs a bomb.’

  Apple hoped she could starve the conversation with silence, and when Jackson said nothing more, she circled another shoe and wrote: Neoprene or stretch fabric ankle boots. Syncs ankle of boot to leg of skinny pant/jean for unbroken contour.

  Jackson read the words over Apple’s shoulder. ‘For sure.’

  ‘How is it possible that Poppy was engaged two weeks ago and it’s only now I’m getting you both under the same roof? You’re only in the next suburb, for Pete’s sake.’ Ginny gathered Apple into a hug as her daughter climbed from her ute. ‘Oh the Morris is rusting there, Apple. Oh, and there – look.’ She began to inspect the rusted old wheel arch of Apple’s Morris Minor.

  ‘It’s always been like that,’ Apple said.

  ‘It wasn’t when I first bought it, and even then it was twenty years old!’ Ginny sighed. ‘Ooh, I still remember, she looked so pristine with her 1950s pale minty green all glossy in the sun. That first weekend I had her my boyfriend and I put an air mattress in the tray and slept under the stars.’

  ‘The tray’s only half a human long.’

  ‘We had the back open. Our feet stuck out but we didn’t care, we were so free.’

  Apple pecked her mother’s cheek and they wandered towards her old weatherboard – its paint as flaky as the ute’s.

  ‘How’s the breadmaking going?’ Apple asked. Dried dough stretched like cobwebs across Ginny’s apron.

  ‘You’ll try my sourdough tonight!’ She beamed, her wild, sandy curls barely tamed by an old clip. ‘Do you like my genius new clogs?’

  Apple glanced down. ‘They’re very bright, Mum. And rubbery.’

  Ginny hooted. ‘I knew you’d hate them. But I’m knee-deep in chook poop half the day, digging up veggies – I can just hose them down! It’s brilliant.’

  Apple waved at the octogenarian neighbour porching next door.

  ‘Hi, George! Apple’s teasing me!’ Ginny called. ‘Are your tomatoes finished?’

  ‘Almost, Ginn, almost!’ He gave a salute. ‘Evening, Apple. I’ll leave a bag of them on yo
ur bonnet, sweetheart. Don’t forget, else they’ll be soup on the road!’

  ‘Thanks, Gog.’ Apple waved and then continued up the path. ‘How is your garden, Mum? Am I still dying?’

  Ginny hesitated. ‘You mean the apple tree you were conceived under? It’s not dying – God forbid! It just has apple scab, such pitiably ugly fruit, but look – the poppies are coming through, aren’t they beautiful?’

  Apple frowned at the red flowers growing thick along the fence line. ‘She’s your favourite.’

  Ginny laughed, swinging the flyscreen wide then letting it bang closed behind them.

  Inside, the house was warm, felt like home, and Apple followed Ginny down the hall. ‘Oh, Mum, the bread, yum – I can smell it.’

  They were in the kitchen when the flyscreen banged again.

  ‘Mum?’ came a shout.

  ‘Poppy! We’re in the kitchen.’

  ‘I’m here!’

  ‘You’re here, darling, you’re here.’ Ginny bundled up her daughter, fussing affectionately with Poppy’s hair and kissing each cheek twice. ‘What a beautiful time in your life, what a surprise, what magic.’

  ‘Weddings!’ Poppy clapped and Apple unwound the cage from a bottle of sparkling wine. She popped the cork and sloshed the bubbly into the old Duralex tumblers Ginny had unpacked from the dish rack.

  ‘When your father left, I honestly didn’t know if I could do it alone,’ Ginny announced, raising a glass. ‘All I knew was that I loved you both more than life and that, whatever happened, somehow I’d make it work. I don’t often take time to reflect, but during this potent time of love and celebration for our darling Poppy, I just can’t help it. I never married your father and I think there was a reason for that. I also think there’s a reason you want to marry Lachie. He’s thoughtful, he treats you with love and kindness, and he’s a man who I know will always be there. That you’d choose someone like this to be your companion, and that he’d choose you in return, fills me with pride and joy. Cincin, little flower.’

  ‘Cincin!’

  They hugged in an awkward, giggling triangle before Poppy and Apple sighed into chairs at the kitchen table. Ginny sank a ladle into an earthenware pot on the stove.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A vegetable and split pea medley.’

  Ginny dished it out and Apple plucked the Elsie’s Magic Everything Shake from the table, smiling. The ethnic spice mix was a fixture in Ginny’s house, and had flavoured almost every meal the girls had ever been fed, bar dessert.

  ‘Can you believe they were thinking of discontinuing that?’ Ginny said. ‘Boy, did they think wrong! I got the entire food co-op to write to them, one by one, and I sent out an email that must have gone viral, because last I heard Elsie’s is not going anywhere.’ She took the canister from Apple and shook the mix into the soup.

  Poppy reached for her steaming plate as Ginny slid a knife into the bread, fanning slices on a board, before joining the girls at the table.

  ‘Roasted garlic and olive. I made it with those nice marinated kalamatas from the deli and just a little bit of Elsie’s. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s dense. I like it.’

  ‘But you really need a good daub of butter.’ Ginny reached for Apple’s slice with a loaded knife. ‘It’s that New Zealand churn – yellow as buttercups, truly biodynamic, loaded with K2 come spring.’

  ‘It’s yum, Mum.’

  ‘And I love feeding my sourdough culture! It’s in the fridge, have a look later. It’s like an ever-fermenting little pet. Did you know you can make a starter culture from vagina yeast?’

  Apple and Poppy gagged.

  Ginny cackled. ‘What – you think I’ve done it? You think I’d feed you vagina bread and only say when you’re halfway through?’ She tried to say more but couldn’t for laughing.

  ‘What the hell, Mum?’ Poppy eyed the slice in her hand.

  ‘That’s just normal bread!’ Ginny shoved it towards Poppy’s mouth. ‘But I found this fascinating article today about a woman who’d made her culture from the yeast from her vagina. How’s that?’

  ‘Far out.’ Apple let her bread fall to her plate.

  ‘The bacteria die when the bread’s baked, for goodness’ sake.’ Ginny rolled her eyes. ‘Who are these squeamish anti-feminists I’ve raised?’

  ‘It’s not anti-feminist to not want to eat bread made from vagina goo!’

  Ginny hooted, flicking a hand in the air. ‘I’m just saying, it’s a fun idea, very . . . What is it? Hipster. Why am I the only cool one in the room?’

  ‘I dare you to make vagina bread.’

  ‘I may! Anyway,’ Ginny got up to put her plate in the sink, ‘look what I stumbled across the other day.’ She plucked a book from a pile of paperwork and slid it blithely along the table towards Apple. ‘Open it.’

  The faded Disney scrapbook had a picture of Snow White on the cover and, in Apple’s childhood handwriting, the words ‘Private Property of Apple March’.

  ‘It’s been on the dresser in my old room for ages.’ Apple wondered why her mother would choose to bring it out now.

  ‘But look!’ Ginny opened a page to a catalogue photo of a doll that a ten-year-old Apple had once photocopied and pasted again and again throughout. ‘Look at the elaborate outfits you dreamed up for your dolly – you’ve drawn a different outfit on her each time! And these collages of skirts and hats and shoes that you cut from magazines – it’s genius!’

  ‘And do you remember the final outfit you sewed?’ Poppy said, getting up to see. ‘It was masterful! Those little gloves, shawl, hat, cardi? You’ve drawn them all here at the end. You were so meticulous.’

  ‘I remember.’ Apple got up but Poppy didn’t make room to let her past. She squeezed out, moving to the fridge. ‘Ice cream?’

  ‘We’ll get to dessert, but just wait a minute,’ Ginny said, then glanced Poppy, and Apple’s skin crawled with the strange sense of something not being said.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said, standing with the freezer door open.

  ‘Nothing,’ Poppy said, guilelessly. ‘Nothing’s going on. I—’

  ‘She just . . .’ Ginny interjected, but hesitated.

  ‘It was just that Mum and I were talking, and—’

  ‘We were just talking the other day,’ Ginny finished.

  ‘And we were talking about . . .’ Poppy cleared her throat. ‘About a wedding dress.’

  ‘No,’ Apple’s reply was instant. ‘No.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re going to ask me to make your wedding dress.’

  Poppy’s smile faded as she frowned, hands clasped. ‘Please? Please?’

  ‘No.’ Apple tried to harden herself to the emotion on her sister’s face. ‘I don’t do that anymore, you know I don’t. I don’t want to, I can’t. I don’t even know why you’d want me to, why you’d even ask.’ She began searching the freezer for ice cream.

  ‘You don’t know why?’ Poppy said and Apple glanced back to see her sister’s eyes wide, her face a knot of rage as if she’d been prepared for Apple’s answer all along. ‘How about because you’re a beautiful seamstress, an even better designer, and my sister? How about because I can’t think of another person I’d prefer to dress me on my wedding day?’

  Apple laughed coolly, moving things around in the freezer. ‘There are plenty better than me.’

  ‘Do I love them? No. Can I afford their forty-thousand-dollar price tag? No.’

  Apple felt breathless, anxiety rising. ‘You can get a decent dress for, for five K, max – so, so many dresses.’

  ‘Why on earth would I pay five thousand for a “decent” dress when I could pay you the same for an extraordinary one? Why wouldn’t you want to do this for me when we all know you can? And, why would you toss out all those beautiful clothes you made?’

  ‘What?’ Apple twitched.

  ‘She means the clothes, sweetie,’ Ginny said, as though that explained it.

  ‘I don’t know
what you’re talking about.’ Apple yanked the lid off a tub of ice cream and shoved a finger-full in her mouth.

  Ginny got up to gently touch Apple’s arm. This only made her angrier.

  ‘The clothes in the suitcases, sweetie,’ Ginny said. ‘The ones you put out with the rubbish.’

  Apple glanced at Poppy, who said quickly, ‘You should have put them in a dumpster if you didn’t want me to see them – they were right there, in the lane.’

  ‘It made us feel very sad that you wanted to throw all those clothes out, those special clothes that were the result of so much hard work.’

  ‘My hard work. They’re mine to do what I want with. And, Poppy, I wouldn’t have needed to throw them out if you hadn’t dug them up from under the bed. You reminded me how much I wanted to throw them away.’

  ‘Why are you such a fucking failure?’ Poppy suddenly shouted.

  ‘Poppy!’ Ginny said.

  ‘She is!’ Poppy looked like she didn’t want to say what she was about to but couldn’t help it. ‘It’s her own fault! She makes me so angry with all her talent and her lack of giving a single crap about it. I’m so sick of staying quiet. You’re always like, “Be kind to Apple, be sensitive”, but I’m not going to do that anymore. It’s not serving you, Apple. I know Mum couldn’t afford your fees at that Sydney school, but couldn’t you have gone to another one? You were top of your year! Instead you morph into a directionless, apathetic retail bum.’

  Apple let the tub fall to the floor and the ice cream skated across the vinyl tiles. Her laugh was bitter as she wiped tears away. ‘You want to know why? Well, fine, here you go: I didn’t leave the Emmaline Gray Academy because Mum couldn’t afford it, I got kicked out for plagiarism. Mum didn’t want me to tell you because you were only eighteen and she thought you wouldn’t understand, but I also left because I . . .’ She paused to let a sob escape. ‘Because I was a stupid whore!’

  She clutched her mouth, sprinted down the hall and out of the house, smothering sobs until she leaped into her ute. Then she cried out in the silence.

  Something slid from her bonnet as she accelerated away and she saw George’s tomatoes bouncing down the road. ‘Fuck!’